Paper Heart
by Hailey Burns
Summary: Hiatus: After Shannon and Kelly are dead and Gibbs is in between 3rd and 4th marriages, he gets lonely. He misses Kelly more than anything, so he signs up for the foster program. He never expected this. Written from the perspective of the new daughter.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, this is a re-write of a story I wrote a few years ago. I know it's been forever since I've written on this site, but I started writing my own story and it's really taken off. Since I've hit a writer's block, I've decided to re-write this story. I really liked it and I had to delete it after my aunt read it…. Whoops.**

**DISCLAIMER! I do NOT own anything that you recognize from the show. I only own Kris and any other OCs I decide to use. **

**Warning: rated M for later chapters. I promise nothing more graphic than PG-13, but there will be nasty language in a couple chapters that imply some very demented things. Just thought I'd put that out there. **

**On to the story.**

_Leroy Jethro Gibbs._ That was the name the social worker had given me after school today. My new shelter until… well, until he got tired of me and moved on. That's what had happened with the other 15 sets of people I had been assigned to. Some good, some bad. The bad ones had their "fill" of me and then threw me out. The good ones, on the other hand, eventually got tired of me…and then threw me out. Either way, I wasn't looking forward to moving into another house. I sighed. _Two more years,_ I reminded myself. I looked at the address again just to make sure I was in the right place so I shut off my crappy car and got out. The social worker had told me it was a single guy, which sent shivers down my spine. Singles guys were always trouble, or at least in my case. I swallowed hard and got out of the car to walk up the concrete driveway.

The house was huge, which was weird if it was a single guy. There had to be something more to it, but I wasn't there to find answers. I just needed a legal place to stay until I was 18, hopefully. I was tired of being bounced around like something that was regifted again and again. At least two stories; I say at least, because I didn't know if there was a basement or not. White picket fence around a front yard and a pathway that led to the stairs. I climbed up the porch steps and knocked on the large door twice before backing up to wait for an answer. Silence was the only answer I got. I walked over to the edge of the porch and looked by the garage. The guy's truck was there so he had to be home unless he was out with friends. I walked back to the door and peered inside. A light was on in the kitchen. I pounded on the door and waited again. If this was the right house, then my social worker should have told the guy to be expecting me. After a minute of more silence, I turned to walk back down the steps to my car. "Must've heard her wrong 'cuz this is totally the wrong house." I was just about to get into my car when I heard the door open.

I turned around to see a middle aged man walking out the door. "Wait," he called as he descended the steps. "Wait." It was quieter that time as he jogged to meet me. His hair was almost all gray, but there were places where it was obvious that his hair had once been a very dark brown. It was cut rather oddly, but after taking in the rest of him, I guessed ex-Marine. Granted, I had some help; he was wearing a faded gray t-shirt with Marines written on it. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to look deep into my soul; that was something I didn't want. Again, I was just there to live, not to make friends. Although, if I was lucky, he would be a decent guy.

The only really decent family I had was a Marine and his wife: Mike and Julie Whistler. I was totally happy living there and thought that maybe I had found my family. Unfortunately, I was bounced to the next family when Mike was deployed and Julie lost it. I could still remember their faces the instant I closed my eyes. Mike promised me that when he came back that he would adopt me, but that was almost ten years ago.

I looked over him again as I debated whether or not to introduce myself or let him. His hands looked dusty and sawdust rested on his shoulders like snow would during the winter.

"I didn't actually hear you knock, until later because… well, I was working on something." It didn't seem like he was going to open up easily either, which I was perfectly fine with. "Anyways, I'm Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs." He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

I shook it firmly. "Special Agent, huh? Renee didn't tell me that about you." I smirked. "I'm Kris Reagan."

"Pleasure." Then he took the time to look me over and I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I was probably not what a former Marine was expecting. My jet-black hair was cropped shoulder length and quite spiky. The bangs, lower layer of my hair were dyed bright red, along with a few red highlights, and in all honesty, it was what I loved most about my hair so I made it show. I had two rings in the cartilage of each ear and one in my nose. My lips were painted black and my eyes were ringed with heavy black eyeliner with a halo of maroon eyeshadow. I was wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, Converse, and my favorite navy blue The Misfits t-shirt with a black and white striped long sleeved shirt underneath. His dark grey eyebrows rose at the image.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I shrunk. For some reason I was becoming incredibly self-conscious of the look that had defined me. I bit my black lip as the awkward silence settled between us. I wasn't sure what to say, and it appeared that he didn't either. Finally, the silence became way too uncomfortable for me. "I guess you're taking care of me for a while," I offered, snapping the silence in two it seemed.

He placed his hands on his hips as he snapped out of the silence and nodded. "Yup," he agreed. Heading to my car, he called over his shoulder, "Lemme help you with your stuff."

I rolled my eyes as I pulled out my keys and headed to the trunk. Opening the trunk, I reached for my bag, but got my hand slapped away. My gaze snapped over to him.

"I got it," he replied shortly.

Rolling my eyes again, I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat and headed into his house. Hardwood floors spanned the entire floor from what I could currently see. It was a very large house, but the dust hanging in the air told me that there wasn't more than one person living here in a long time, if ever. In fact, the dust seemed so heavy that it made me cough at first. A wide staircase was laid right out in front of me, but to my left was what could be the living room. It was sparse to say the least: an olive plaid couch sat slightly askew to the windows leading to the street with a small wooden table in front of it with stacks of papers, a TV sat in the corner in front of an old bike that probably belonged to a woman though that didn't make sense, two lamps framed the wood fireplace stacked with books to match the overstuffed bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, and there was black and white picture hanging above the fireplace, but I couldn't tell what it was of. That was all I could see, but it was enough to tell me that there was no one else living here.

Unfortunately, the signs of obvious bachelorhood sent me reeling back in time to the worst experience ever in my foster care. His house had been like this: empty, except for books. The heavy feeling caused by the dust floating in the room, and whether it was there or not, I could almost smell the bourbon hanging on the air. Shutters slid down my spine, making my body frigid. The fear consumed my entire being. I couldn't that vulnerable again! I wouldn't be, I promised myself. I would kill myself rather than be curled up in a corner, shaking with fear. A dark, evil chuckle escaped my lips for a brief second as I realized that it honestly wouldn't be that hard to accomplish. I wore the long-sleeves for a reason: I was a self-mutilator. The sound of Gibbs dropping my bags on the hardwood floor brought me harshly back to reality. I turned around to help him with my stuff, but he was all ready heading up the stairs, heaving all of my duffel bags behind him.

"Nice car," he joked as he reached the halfway point on the stairs.

"Thanks," I scoffed. It had been a gift from my favorite foster parents on my sixteenth birthday. Since Mike, the father, had been in Iraq serving the country, Julie had spent just enough to get me a reliable car. It was a 1992 Toyota that had definitely seen better days, but it still got me from point A to point B. As with every car that has seen better days, there were a few personality flaws that came dragging along. Mine happened to be the fact that the trunk had to be slammed extra hard to actually close. "Couldn't get the trunk to close, huh?" I asked as I skipped up the stairs to him and grabbed a bag before he could protest.

Shaking his head, he agreed with me. "It took a little while before I realized you had to practically sit on the darn thing to get it to close."

I laughed. It was a real laugh, something that hadn't happened in a few years. We trudged up to the top and stared down the narrow hallway, only containing four doors. Two of the doors were parallel to each other on the closest end of the hallway, while the third sat ominously at the far end and the fourth was the right hand side somewhere in between. A question mark seemed to appear on my face as I looked over at him to get an idea of which direction I was headed.

He sighed. "The two closest are yours. The one on the left is the bedroom, and on the right is the bathroom. My room is the door at the end of the hall. The remaining door has towels and sheets in it, if you ever need an extra pair." He led me to my room despite having just told me, though he did let me open the heavy, cherry wood door.

The walls were plain white, which matched the rest of the house. A closet was on the far left with a small dresser resting against the perpendicular wall. The bed, which was currently just a mattress sitting in a cherry frame, sat against the wall to my right, pushed up against the far wall. None of this however was what caught my attention at first. No, what did was the window. On the far wall was a large window of some dimensions proportional to a 4"x6" card framed by walnut trim. The view was what really caught my attention. Looking out it was basically trees as far as the eye could see, but in the distance, I could make out the shape of the Washington Memorial and Capitol Building. With the curtains up, the sun poured into the room so that I didn't even have to touch the light switch. Leaning against the doorframe, I let the two bags I carried sink to the floor as I took in the beautiful view that was displayed before me.

He came up behind me and rested his fist on the doorframe above my fist. Even though it was a gentle gesture, I involuntarily flinched as I realized he was there. He looked down at me with a smile on his face. It was like he knew this would be the reaction, like he wanted this reaction. "I take it you like it."

"Like it?" I asked. "I love it." I could feel the smile plastered on my face. It surprised me to be honest, but alas, there it was. He seemed very pleased with himself as I answered. He dropped the bags on the floor and turned to head back down the stairs. I watched him with a raised eyebrow as he trotted back down the stairs.

"I'm gonna get dinner started," he answered.

My eyebrow stayed raised at that statement. He honestly didn't seem like the type of man to cook, but there was a lot I didn't know about him, I admitted. Still, my guess was take-out for dinner, which I didn't mind at all. I sighed, shook my head and started making the empty room mine. I started putting band shirts and other various t-shirts into a drawer, and my jeans went into another. My gothic "chain pants" of various designs went into another smaller drawer. The more dressy items of clothing that I owned got hung up in the closet. Next were the posters of movies, bands, and other random things that they made posters of. Of course, posters aren't small, so they quickly took up the wall space. It didn't bother me at all; it just made the room more me. I made my bed with my black skull and cross bones sheets and black and white comforter. From my backpack, I gently pulled out one single picture. It was a 5"x7" in a simple black frame, which was an addition by my last family. The picture had fold marks and was faded around the edges from being folded up in my wallet for so long. I clutched the picture in my hands before placing it on the dresser. It was the picture of the only foster family that I really considered my own. Mike and Julie Reagan were their names. Mike was in his Marines uniform and Julie was in her favorite sundress. I was in a sundress as well, but mind you, this was taken over five years ago, and I was a different person then. We were all in a park somewhere standing by a tree. The wind was gently blowing that day, and gently tousled both Julie's and my hair. They looked happy; I looked happy. I was happy then. Pulling my mind back to the present moment, I applied the finishing touch on my room by screwing in a black light in place of the regular bulb. I knew that the bluish tinge it gave off was more suited to my tastes than just any other light bulb. I plugged in my stereo and slapped the heavy case of CDs next to it. The room had transformed in half and hour into my room. I was proud because that was my new record for getting moved in. Shoving my duffel bags into the closet, I headed downstairs.

I entered the kitchen cautiously. He wasn't there. Of course not, so that pretty much confirmed that we were having take-out for dinner. I shook my head and began wandering around the house again. There wasn't much. It was just the bare necessities. I wanted to get a feel for the house since I seemed to be free to wander. I wondered about his personal life, if he had one, and began searching for pictures. The walls were bare and white, excepting the trimming of chestnut about halfway down the wall that made up for the walling. As I had previously noticed, there was a black and white picture above the fireplace, but I could tell that it had no connection to him. Down the hallway from the main door was a picture, but it was nothing personal. At the end of that hallway was his office, which consisted of a desk stacked with papers and bookshelves covering the walls. I knew from past experience that the foster parents' rooms and offices were off limits so I headed back to the living room and started looking through the books. It was a wide range: everything from novels, to political nonfiction, to sniper references and boats. I still didn't have a clear picture of the man I was living with.

Finding nothing, I headed back to the kitchen and sat on the barstool at the far end of the counter. I looked around the kitchen to find it as sparse as the rest of his house. To say the appliances were outdated was an understatement. I wouldn't be surprised if they had similar appliances in the early 70s, but I suppose if they still worked there was no point in staying current. The clock in between cupboards told me it was almost 6:30. I folded my arms and laid my head on them to wait for something interesting to happen. I didn't have to wait long thankfully because about a minute later there was loud cracking sound and then a cuss word that I could only assume came from Gibbs.

I got up and darted across the kitchen. The door at the end of the kitchen seemed to be about the only logical source of the sound. Reluctantly, I pulled open the door and headed out onto the landing of what appeared to be a creaky wooden stairway. What greeted my eyes, I would have never suspected from this man, but as I pieced it together, it did make sense. Sitting on top of the concrete floor, in the middle of the room, sat the skeleton of a boat. It wasn't even that. It was five boards; two end boards at approximately 60 degree angles, a board horizontally on top, and then the two curved boards to make the shape of the boat. One of those boards was broken near the top. Gibbs leaned against an end board with the hammer hanging loosely in his hand. He didn't seem mad, but the look in his blue eyes told me otherwise. My first instinct was run, but something kept me planted to handrail. "Is everything all right?" I heard myself ask.

"No," he sighed. "It'll be okay though. I've just been set back about two months."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he snapped. "Shows weakness."

I was confused, but I was beginning to accept the fact that confusion was just going to be part of living here. This man was full of surprises. I took in the basement/workshop. As I had previously noticed, the floor was simple concrete. In the back right hand corner a desk was set up that was covered in supplies for woodworking, I guessed. Red toolboxes lined the shelves underneath and other various items sat on the shelves above the desk. There was a dart board next to the desk on one side, while there were more shelves on the other side that contained various pieces of wood. On a rack above the wood was a rolled up tarp and a long length of rope. On the left hand wall, I could hear a TV reeling off the news headlines. My feet seemed to be glued to wood of the stairs.

"Come here," he commanded gently as he motioned for me to move towards him.

Slowly, my feet left the landing and the stairs creaked under my Converse. I was nervous to say the least. As I walked down, I noticed a bottle of bourbon sitting on the desk, and it immediately sent me into survival mode. I reached the concrete floor and sawdust puffed up around my feet in little clouds. Looking down, one corner of my mouth curved up in a smile. It really was such a childish thing to find amusing, but I did. It was almost like jumping in a puddle after the rain. Looking up, I saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Cautiously, I continued forward to him. He put up his hand for me to stop next to the board that was still intact. Turning around, he grabbed a piece of sandpaper before placing it in my hand. Standing behind me, he grabbed my hands gently in his calloused ones and extended them to meet the wood. Gently he moved it up the board along the grain. I let his hands do the guiding as I let the sensation of the wood under my hands take over. I felt the wood hum as the sandpaper rushed over it. I could feel the simple piece of wood turning into a masterpiece as the sandpaper smoothed out any imperfections. It was amazing, like the first time Mike took me fishing. It was peaceful and soothing. I turned around and saw him smiling at me.

"Feels amazing, doesn't it?"

All I could do was nod. The ability to speak seemed to have disappeared.

He returned the nod, as if he understood the speechlessness. "I've been working on her for a while." Seeing the question written on my face, he continued. "No power tools. Everything was done by hand."

I had to admit, I was impressed. This explained why it would take almost two months to fix the simple mistake. "Wow…"

He laughed, and then encouraged me to look around the workshop.

I took the opportunity and was intrigued by a small desk against the wall that held the TV. The desk looked old and was stacked with blueprints and tools. It seemed to call to me. I loved it. As I sat down in the chair tucked in underneath it, I noticed the careful craftsmanship in the careful design along the edging. I ran my hands over the wood and fell in love. I could easily spend hours down here doing things productive and unproductive. I could do homework down here and listen to the news, or I could write random things about anything and listen to him make his boat. I turned around to ask to find Gibbs leaning against the skeleton waiting for the question. Startled, all I could get out was "Ummm."

He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest.

Making up for my weak start, I asked, "What do I call you? Leroy? Jethro? Leroy Jethro? Special Agent Gibbs? Dad? …Master?"

He cocked his head at the last suggestion. "Master?"

"Long story," I lied.

He shook his head and let it go. Apparently, he decided that it was too early to push that one, even if it went against his instincts. "Gibbs will do just fine."

I nodded. "Ok, so Gibbs, can I use this desk while I'm here?"

He looked longingly at it, and his eyes glazed over for a second as his mind spun back in time. He snapped back in a second, and the look on his face told me that he had made up his mind. "Sure, why not?" Despite him trying to hide it, I could still hear a tinge of sadness in voice. I didn't understand his attachment to the desk.

Before I could ask, the doorbell rang. Then it rang again, and again. After a minute, there was a pounding on the door. "That must be dinner," Gibbs suggested.

I moved to the stairs and took them two at a time. "Coming!" I dashed across the hardwood floor and pulled open the door to reveal a very impatient delivery boy holding a brown paper bag. I smiled awkwardly at him as I grabbed the bag from him and disappeared into the kitchen. I saw Gibbs come up from out of the basement with his wallet in hand. I set the bag on the table just outside of the living room and headed into the kitchen to grab plates, silverware and glasses. As I headed back to the table, I saw the delivery boy looking at me. I smiled.

"Who's that, Agent Gibbs?" he asked. "I thought you lived alone."

Gibbs moved to block the kid's view as he handed him the money. "Thanks," he said shortly and closed the door. Apparently he wasn't ready to tell people about me, especially the delivery boy. I could understand that. He seemed to be new at this, so I let it go. I pulled out the boxes from the sack and opened them. Inside, there were different varieties of Chinese food. I shrugged; it could have been worse. I opened one to find sweet and sour chicken. I inhaled the aroma and used my silverware to shovel it onto the plate.

Gibbs passed me and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon out of a cabinet. I nearly dropped the box of chicken on the table. Fear formed a knot in my stomach that was so tight I couldn't untie it by my usual techniques of deep breathing. I clenched the box and finally controlled myself to the point where I could talk. "Could you maybe not drink bourbon tonight?"

He looked up at me with question in his eyes.

I shook my head. It was all I could do.

He tried to ask the question, but he nodded and placed the whiskey back in the cabinet. In place of the hard liquor he grabbed two juice boxes. He placed one in front of her and sat down across from her. He pulled the boxes of Chinese food across the table and shoveled it onto his plate.

I popped the straw into the juice box and took a sip before stuffing some food into my mouth. "Juice boxes, huh?" I asked, swallowing my food.

"They didn't tell me how old you would be!" he defended.

"I'm your first, aren't I?"

"What?"

I laughed. "You've never been a foster parent before, have you?"

He shook his head. "Nope, so you're gonna have to go easy on me," he joked. He shoveled a bite of his food into his mouth and looked up at me. With food still remaining in his mouth, he said, "Tell me about yourself, Kris."

I wasn't exactly sure where to begin or what to say anyways. I stuffed food into my mouth to buy myself some time before answering. "There isn't much else about me other than what's in the file," I lied. Pulling my hands under the table, I rubbed the cuts along my arm. I knew that it was a political answer that may have shown me to be a bit of a smart-aleck, but I couldn't answer honestly, not yet.

Silently, he stared me down with those blue eyes and his fork poised in mid-air. "I want to hear your version."

Sighing, I put the fork down and leaned over the table. "There really isn't that much to tell. I've been in 13 or 14 foster homes over the course of my life. I don't remember my parents, how they died, or if I ever had any to begin with. I'm 16 years old, and a junior in high school. It doesn't really matter which one, as long as I'm getting an education and I know where it is. I do best at math and history in school, but over the years, I've developed a passion for watching people and trying to figure them out. I don't have that many friends, but then again, I've been at the same school for a year. This will be my second." I took a breath and leaned back in my chair, crossing both my arms and legs. "Anything else?"

It was Gibbs' turn to lean over the table. "Yeah. One more thing. What are some of you experiences in foster homes?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I didn't want to tell him; though it was more selfish reasons than anything else. I didn't want to relive some of the things I've been through ever again. I couldn't. Yet as soon as I closed my eyes after he asked, I was curled up in the corner again. I couldn't admit that; not yet. Reopening my eyes, I saw his eyes staring into mine. I knew that I had to tell him. Otherwise, he would probably have been able to read my mind. "It's a wide spectrum," I replied with a tone of defeat. I didn't want to go into detail, so I didn't. "There were families that my life heaven, and others that made my life a living hell." This last part was said with a shudder. "That's all the detail you get for now." It was abrupt and rude, but I couldn't go into any other detail. My arms retreated to underneath the table again.

He nodded. "It must get hard at times."

I bit my black lip. I felt like I should tell him about Mike and Julie, but at the moment, I couldn't bring myself to say anything. All that was going through my mind were images of things I would have rather forgotten. I took a deep breath and swallowed. "Gibbs, can I ask you a question?"

"Ya just did," he pointed out as he cleaned his plate.

I smiled. "Ha ha, very funny," I retorted. I stuffed the last bite of Chinese food into my mouth and stood up. Grabbing both his plate and mine, I headed into the kitchen and placed them in the sink. "Never mind." I decided that my question could only be answered with time. Besides, anyone could talk their way into being liked. I started climbing the stairs. I didn't really have to go to bed yet seeing as it was only 8:00, but with nothing better to do, I thought that this would be a decent option.

Halfway up the stairs, Gibbs called to me. "There's a couple things I need to show you, just in case I'm not here when you get up tomorrow morning."

Rolling my eyes, I came back down the stairs to his side. "What?"

His jaw was clenched. I could see it. He jerked his head in the direction of the bookcase behind the TV. "See that box on the shelf?"

"Yeah," I replied.

He walked over to it and punched in a code and opened it. He pulled out his gun. I slowly walked back towards the stairs. "When I'm home," he explained, "I keep my gun in there. It's for emergencies, but if you ever need it, like if I'm in the basement, and you need it, the code is 2-5-8-0."

I nodded and watched as he put it back in.

He gestured that I follow him. He headed back down into the basement.

Cautiously, I followed him and by the time I got to the top of the stairs, he was all ready walking across the concrete floor to the desks piled up with everything imaginable. He reached inside one of the Mason jars along the wall, and he produced a key from it. Unlocking a few drawers underneath the desk, he opened them. Looking up, he noticed that I was sitting on the stairs. "Come on."

Reluctantly, I got up and trotted down the stairs to him. Looking in the drawers, I saw a sniper rifle, and yet another handgun. "These are only for emergencies. When I'm not here."

I nodded in understanding. Seeing his look of dismissal, I headed back up stairs and walked up the other flight of stairs to my room. Looking across the view of the nation's capitol, I lowered my curtain. I flipped on the black light, immersing my room in a bluish-purple light. I smiled, knowing that my room was officially mine now. Closing the door, I popped an Evanescence CD into the stereo and flopped onto the skull and cross-bones decorated bed. The music made the walls vibrate just a little bit. Rolling onto my stomach and slammed my fists into the pillow. I hated my life. Who I was, what I had missed, everything. For once, I wanted parents. I was so tired of being bounced from house to house. Reaching across to the bedside table, I pulled out a razor and pressed it to my skin. I couldn't do it. Those piercing blue eyes entered my thoughts, and wouldn't leave. How did this man that I hadn't even known a full day all ready seem to influence my decisions? As I rolled over, my eyes caught the picture of Mike, Julie and me. Maybe that was it: Gibbs reminded me of Mike. I wondered when I would see them again, or if I ever would. I doubted it. It had been almost 6 years, and the last I heard from them was when they gave me the car.

I heard footsteps outside my door, and saw the shadows of feet outside my door. I knew that it was Gibbs. I also knew that he probably was trying to figure me out, and he couldn't. I smirked. I was glad he couldn't, but then I realized that this could be my chance to tell someone about me and maybe I could find someone that really cared about me. Then my mind actually kicked in. He wanted the music turned down. I relented and turned it off. I shut off the light and went to sleep.

**Okay, well that was fun. My lovelies, please review. You know just how much I love them. Now. I'm not really sure where to go from here because last time I wrote this, the end of this was the end of chapter 3. HMMM! Dilemma, dilemma. Give some suggestions, and maybe you'll get lucky. Tell me what you all think. Clicky that happy little button below. =) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, my lovelies, thank you for the reviews. I hope you know how much I love them. I know that I could do this by PM, but where's the fun in that?**

**Cheether— I won't give you any hints to what or when Gibbs will find out anything. ;) I have to admit though, I do like your idea of nightmares (and may use it) So thank you! Thank you so much for the compliments! I'm glad that you like it.**

**Tracy— I'm very glad that you like the story. Here is the next chapter. She doesn't predate Abby, so you will have to read forward to see how they get along. I didn't think about the shooting thing, so that is addressed in this chapter. See it's times like this when I dearly love my readers. **

**Hope06— I think I remember you even! Glad to see you coming back to read this again. There will be some things that are similar, but there will some changes. If you remember, Kris's past kinda freaked my aunt out. She then called my mom, who thought I was mentally disturbed. I had to delete it… Glad that you like it… again. Lol**

**NCISTate4ever— I am thrilled that you like it. Yes, it will be an interesting introduction.**

**Hey— I'd like your name at some point =) I like your idea as well, and may wind up using it at some point. Thanks. Here's more.**

**MuseUrania— I will assume that there's a very interesting story behind that name. I love your compliment. Thank you for being very specific. I hope that this chapter lives up to your expectations. **

**Fart fart— Thanks.**

**Now, onto the next chapter. If you'd like your name up there, review! Hope you like it. I'm a bit nervous to be honest. EEK! Enjoy!**

The next morning, I was awoken by the sound of a coffee grinder downstairs. Rolling over I checked my clock: 6:20. Sighing, I got out of bed and grabbed a pair of arm warmers. Sliding them onto my arms, I headed downstairs. My red and black hair was plastered against my skull, though I suspected that one side was more or less stuck up from where I had slept. Rubbing my neck, I trotted down the stairs to the kitchen. "Is that coffee I smell?" I asked. The look on his face was another of surprise. I was used to it. Of course, I was wearing a simple black tank top and green and black plaid lounge pants. I hadn't bothered getting changed yet.

He poured a mug and handed it to me. "Morning."

I clutched the ceramic container and took a deep breath. The sweet aroma of coffee heightened my senses. "Good morning." For the first time that morning, I took in what he looked like. He looked a lot nicer than the day before wearing slacks, a polo shirt and suit jacket. He was clean shaven with his hair nicely combed. "You look nice," I mentioned as I took a long swallow of the sweet liquid.

"Have to," he replied.

"Don't talk much do you?"

He shook his head.

"Fine." I set the coffee mug on the counter and began rummaging through the cabinets until I found a bowl, spoon and cereal. It wasn't my typical cereal, but it would work. I grabbed the milk from the fridge and sat at the table.

He joined me with a bowl and spoon. Reaching across the table, he stole the cereal and milk from me. The cereal clattered into the bowl and silently, he ate it.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, you made me tell you about myself. Your turn."

A smile crossed his face. He grabbed my hand, though not without some difficulty. He looked into my eyes for an answer, but I refused to let one show. However, the look in his eyes told me to trust him, that it would be all right. I relented. He grabbed a pen out of his coat and wrote an address onto the palm of my hand. "Swing by after school. Then you'll know."

Drawing back my hand, I stared at the address. I didn't recognize it, but I was sure that it would be interesting to find out what secrets it held. I watched him in disbelief as we both ate our cereal. Underneath was a ten-digit number; my guess was a phone number. This was definitely more interesting than any other household I was required to stay with. I silently ate my cereal and watched him finish his. "The phone number?"

"My cell phone, if you ever need to contact me. I'll always answer." Downing his coffee, he walked over to the sink and put the empty bowl and mug in the sink. He holstered his gun from the safe and headed to the door. "See ya later," was his goodbye as he walked out the door.

I let my jaw hang as I heard him start his car and drive away. I finished my cereal and headed upstairs when I realized that it was almost 7:00. Scampering to get ready in less than 15 minutes was a challenge, but I managed to pull on black "chain pants" and a t-shirt while putting on my makeup and doing my hair. Grabbing the arm warmers off of my bed and my backpack from the corner, I dashed down the stairs and out to my car to make it to school on time. The thought of having a key didn't even cross my mind as I tried to beat traffic.

* * *

After school that day, I grabbed my map and pin pointed where the address he had written on my hand was and made a quick sketch of my route. I was still very much confused as to what he had planned, but the only way I would find out would be to trust him. Every time I hesitated to go I remembered the look in his eyes as he grabbed my hand earlier that morning. Making up my mind, I began exiting the school parking lot.

A group of girls dressed similarly to me walked in front of my car. They waved as they each went to their respective cars. I waved back as I turned onto the street. I remembered their chiding when they discovered I was in a new home again.

"_So you gotta new home, huh, Kris?"_

"_Yeah," I relented. _

"_Family?"_

"_Nope," I responded. It was our favorite game to play when I got bounced to a new home. Who was my new family? What were they like? From there it was, how would I be treated?_

"_Single mom?"_

"_Nope."_

_They all looked at each other and started giggling. "Single guy?"_

_I smiled._

"_Ooh, is he hot" the dumber one asked._

_I shook my head at her stupidity. Sometimes I questioned my choice in friends._

As I entered the freeway, I stuck in my Nirvana CD into the stereo and turned it up. Tapping my hands on the steering wheel, I sang along at the top of my lungs. As usual, I got a few glances from people passing me. Taking it in good cheer, I waved at them. To the one who flipped me off, however, the gesture was returned. Following my route, I came to the Navy Yard. I was sure that I had followed my route correctly, but as I rolled up to the security check point, I began to second guess myself. I rolled down my window as I slowed to a stop.

"Name and intent?" the naval officer asked. He looked me over a couple times with a raised eyebrows.

"Kristen Reagan," I announced. As for my intent? Well, I didn't really know. Was I honestly going to say that I was given an address by Gibbs and wasn't sure why I was here? "I'm looking for Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs," I stated, hoping for the best.

He nodded as he searched around and underneath my car. "Yeah, go on in. Turn left at the third stop sign. The building will have a black sign saying NCIS on the front."

"NCIS?" I asked.

He laughed. "Yeah. Good luck, Ms. Reagan."

I nodded and drove away from the security checkpoint. I laughed as I saw him lift his cap and scratch his head. My guess was that he hadn't seen someone like me before. I loved people's reactions. Strictly following all the traffic guidelines, I wound my way through the Navy Yard to the NCIS building. I parked in front of the plain red brick building. As the naval officer said, there was in fact a black sign that read NCIS. Trees lined the front of the building, blocking a great deal of the many windows lining the walls of the building. A grass lawn spread out from the brick to the asphalt of the parking lot. The cement sidewalk led to the automatic doors underneath a nice, simple black archway that read "United States [break] Naval Criminal Investigative Services." Under that was a clock. I locked my car as I walked along the pathway into the building.

Another security checkpoint, but of course, it was DC, and there were security checkpoints everywhere. I emptied my pockets of pants and put their contents in the container and watched them go through the scanner. The security agent leaned over the scanner and looked at me. He was an elderly African-American man that was balding. His weight showed that he was past his prime. He raised his eyebrows and looked me over. "What are you doing here, girl?"

"I wish I knew," I answered honestly.

"Do you have any connections to the military?"

"Not technically, sir," I answered.

He folded his arms across his barrel of a chest.

"She's with me, Henry," a voice behind me said.

Turning around, my eyes were met with the sight of Gibbs. He looked just a little bit more disheveled than he did earlier that morning, and in his hand was another cup of coffee. He smiled at me, and took another glance at the security agent. Holding up a visitor badge, he motioned for me to come through.

I picked up my phone and keys. I clipped on the visitor badge to the bottom hem of my shirt. Following him to the elevator, there were a lot of unanswered questions in my mind. Questions that were to be answered as soon as the elevator doors slid shut. "Question A: why am I here?"

"You'll find out."

"Okay, Mr. Mystery," I joked and crossed my arms as I leaned against the wall. "Question B: Wanna explain why you didn't tell me this address was on a naval base?"

"It was a surprise." He took a sip of his coffee. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. "Stop 1. Follow me."

Rolling my eyes, I did just that. There wasn't really any point in doubting him at this point. "Where are we going?"

"Firing range."

"Why?"

"I need to make sure you can fire a gun."

I shrugged. He had a valid point, but I hadn't noticed anything he did without a valid point, except for this whole thing. He showed me where he kept his three weapons in the house. I supposed that he wanted to make sure that this would be one way to make sure I would stay safe if he wasn't there, which didn't make sense. Of course, if he was a "Special Agent" then it would make sense. I was confused to say the least.

He handed me a pair of hearing-protectors and safety-glasses. He equipped himself with a pair of each and led me to an available stall. Pulling out his sidearm, he set it on the bench. He pinned up a target and set it to the back of the range. "The M40A1 is off limits unless you absolutely need it. The recoil is killer."

I nodded. I had kind of figured that.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Yeah," I affirmed. "I was taught by a Marine too."

A cocked smile formed on his face. "Then you better be good."

I accepted the challenge. Setting the hearing-protectors over my ears, I picked up the gun. I made sure that it was loaded, off of safety, and raised it level with the target. I pulled the trigger until the clip was spent. My wrists were sore from the recoil, but it wasn't that bad. I slid the protectors off my ears and let them rest on my shoulders and placed the gun on the bench again.

He nodded and pulled in the target from the end of the range. There were a few shots in the center of the target's head and then in the center of his stomach. A few had missed, but there were enough to prove to Gibbs that I was a decent shot. "You were taught well."

I smiled for Mike. I missed him and felt a few tears gather at the tops of my eyelids. I was proud of him, and indirectly, Gibbs was proud of him too. "He was one of my foster parents, over five years ago. First thing he did was teach me how to use a gun. He's been deployed ever since, as far as I know." That was as far as I was willing to open up, and apparently it set right with Gibbs.

"He did a good job, and still is doing a good job," he soothed. "Don't doubt that."

I nodded. "Never have." A smile crossed my face.

"All right," he changed the subject abruptly. "Now that you've managed to spend my clip, we're onto the next stop. My coworker's lab, before you ask."

I laughed and headed back to elevator. "Okay, so you work here?"

"Yup," he informed.

"Was it really that hard to say?"

"It's not as fun," he played.

I lightly punched his arm as the elevator descended.

As the elevator doors slid open, the sound of distorted guitars and drums reached my ears. The sweet gravelly sound of a male's voice sung a melody of things that were. It was my type of music. The type that could cover up any pain unless you really listened to the words, and the type that most considered alternative. It was a simple guitar solo that I almost immediately recognized. A techno rhythm began to infiltrate the airwaves. A smile formed manically on my black lips. Running my hand through my red and black hair, I stepped in front of Gibbs for once that day. The familiarity of the music gave me courage.

Walking into the lab, well, it was a lot to take in. The walls were a lovely shade of blue. Metal tables holding various types of equipment on them, ranging anywhere from the basic computer to things I had never seen before. There were miscellaneous items on her desk that I could immediately identify from the "Nightmare Before Christmas." That manic black smile on my face grew. Whoever this "Abby" was, I had a good feeling I was going to like her.

"Whadya got, Abs?" I heard Gibbs call from behind me.

"Gibbs," a voice whined from another part of the lab that I couldn't see, "I don't have anything. How dare you come here without me having anything!" I heard the hiss of automatic doors open from the other part of the lab (wherever that was) and the person that strode to greet us was nothing I expected. The lady that stood before me had pale skin that was contrasted greatly by her black hair, equally jet-black to mine, that was held up in pigtails. She was wearing the stereotypical white lab coat, but underneath was a white tank top under a black mesh long-sleeved shirt with nearly identical black "chain pants." Her fingernails were painted black, something that I hadn't done recently and added a mental reminder for me to do that that night. She had heavy black eyeliner and dark lipstick on. Her accessories included a studded belt, studded bracelets and a spiked dog-collar.

Silence settled between us as she looked me over, and I looked her over. Today, my attire was similar to hers. Obviously, the black "chain pants" were held up by a studded belt as well. My shirt however was a white t-shirt with the British flag "spray-painted" on with my forearms covered by a pair of red and black striped arm warmers. My fingers were painted black; something that I had done at school that day. I was wearing my very much worn in black converse. Black lipstick, of course, was painted on my lips and the darkest shade of blue that I could find layered my eyelids. I watched her eyes flit to Gibbs and then back at me. In a split second, she had closed the gap between herself and me.

"Who is she?" she asked Gibbs.

"Abby, this is Kris Reagan, my foster child," Gibbs introduced. "Kris, this is Abby, our Forensic expert."

She looked at me, and then at Gibbs, and then back at me. When she made a move, I expected her to shake my hand. Instead, she rushed at me and wrapped her arms around me in acceptance. Apparently, she approved.

"Get off," I murmured. I scrunched up my face. I hated hugs, with a passion, though I had to admit that she smelled kind of nice. A bit like sulfur I realized. Interesting.

"What?" she said.

"Let go," I reiterated. "Let go of me now or you'll regret it."

She quickly let go of me and stood back. Looking at Gibbs, she said, "I like her." Turning to me, she asked, "Where did you get those arm warmers? I love them!"

Smiling, "I could ask the same about your collar."

"Hot Topik," she replied. "Now spill."

"Same!"

There was a sound of a throat being cleared from behind us as we began chatting about other items that we loved and decided to trade for a little bit. Silence split the air in an instant. The two of us spun around to watch Gibbs take a sip of his coffee and roll his eyes. "Kris, I'll be back down in a few minutes. You two…yeah." He spun around, shaking his head, and headed towards the elevator.

Abby offered me a seat and we resumed the conversation.

**All right, from here, we're going to assume that she will be introduced to Tony, Franks and Ducky. She happens to pre-date Kate and McGee, sorry. I admit that my portrayal of Abby isn't exactly entire accurate, and for that I apologize greatly, but I TRIED! Okay, anyways, the next chapter will be kind of short, but there will be some Gibbs fluff. You'll just have to see so no questions. ;-) Except for one: do we want names for chapters, or do we care? Clicky the lovely button anyways please. **


	3. Chapter 3

**MaeganM.0816—Thanks!**

**MuseUrania—Love that idea behind the name! Thanks for the compliment. I'm glad that I'm creating a good dynamic and that Abby was okay. I suppose that you do have a point. Yes, Abby and Kris will be very close, so there will be a "scene" involving that.**

**Fart fart— Thank you.**

**Julie507—You read this the first time around? Sorry I had to change it, but I'm glad that you like it now too. I'm glad that you like the dynamic between Gibbs and Kris. It means a lot.**

**Hope06—I think that names on the chapters is just gonna be more work for me, and I'm lazy… soo no titles. Sorry. Yes, Franks has retired by then, so he will be out, and Tony will be in because it's necessary to the plot line. =)**

**Gaben—I love your review! Thank you, thank you! It's an amazing review. =) Background will be filled in a lot in this chapter, but not fully. Thanks for the encouragement about the inaccuracies in the story. Good luck guessing.**

**i-like—Good to know your "real" name. Stop being lazy. Haha Thanks for the compliment. **

**Okay, deepest apologies for the incredibly LONG wait to get this posted. I am pleading school on this one. I got so much school work up until the end, so I hope that this long chapter can appease you. Just letting you know, that the ending is kinda crap, so if you wanna skip that, I'm cool with that. =) Anyways, you all know that I love you, and again, I am so sorry that it took so long.**

That night at dinner, which consisted of spaghetti and garlic bread (courtesy of yours truly), I couldn't wait to ask for more information about Gibbs' job. Sure, I had met the coroner, and the pesky little rookie agent, and of course, Abby. Still, that didn't answer my questions about his job. I would have asked him while I was making dinner, but seeing as he had retreated to the basement, this wasn't a valid option. I grabbed a couple glasses out of the cupboard and a juice box out of the fridge and the bottle of bourbon from a different cupboard. Gibbs didn't deserve to be tortured with juice boxes the entire time I was here, though I was planning on going to the store and getting some real food for the place. I placed the bottle of bourbon next to his glass and punctured the juice box to pour into mine. As I pulled the bread out of the oven, I called down to the basement that dinner was ready.

I had just served up the food when Gibbs came up the stairs. "No juice box tonight?"

I shrugged and sat down. I couldn't think of anything to say to him. As I took my first bite, I watched him sit down in the chair that was probably bought sometime a decade ago. The amber liquid sparkled as the light from the lamp in the corner caught it just right as it flowed into the clear glass. Setting the bottle on the table, he screwed the lid back on. He unfolded the napkin and set it on his lap. Apparently, he was a stickler for manner subconsciously. Eating his food, he never touched the glass. "So you never really explained about NCIS."

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "What's there to explain?"God, he was difficult.

I raised an eyebrow and stuffed more noodles into my mouth.

Gaining a smirk, he actually answered. "Fine. That's where I gained the title special agent, and where I work." His fingers rested on the glass of bourbon, but he never picked it up. Seeing that it didn't fully answer my question, he continued. "It's like the military version of the FBI," he simplified.

Light bulb moment! I raised my chin in understanding. The FBI was the field of work I had wanted to go into for a while, so I knew exactly what he was talking about. "That's what you do for a living?" I asked incredulously. I had kind of made that conclusion, but I wasn't sure. The only people I ever had as "parents" were office workers or in another relatively uninteresting job.

He nodded with the smirk on his face growing.

I let one corner of my black lips turn up as I laughed. "Sweet!" I took a bite of the bread, savoring the dripping of the butter and the tang of garlic. I had to admit that I was proud of myself in my skills of creating this meal to actually taste good. Swallowing, I told him about my ambitions. "I figured that since I watch people so much and I can now pretty much tell you exactly what they feel if I have even the slightest amount of dirt, the investigative field would be a good one to go into."

"Or psychology," he added. "Most people have some sort of personal connection, whether it be family tradition, legal stalking, or some sort of experience that makes you feel as if it's a mission." He also took a bite of bread, "Mmm. That's very good, Kris."

I smiled at his compliment, but got defensive at the previous statement. I couldn't help it; it was a story that no one was ever supposed to know. My best counter: "What's your reason? I can guess DiNozzo's: legal stalking, right?"

He nodded, but appeared to close up at the question I asked directly to him. It was my turn to wonder what he was hiding, because I knew what I was hiding. Deciding to relieve the awkward silence, I restarted the conversation. "Anyways… I find the investigative work more intriguing than anything else. I've kinda made it a hobby."

I could see the look of a rising challenge spark in his sapphire eyes. With one of the corners of his mouth turning into a smirk again, he began thinking about how to challenge my statement. He absently ran his finger across the rim of the glass, but never picked it up to take a sip as the wheels turned in his head. "Okay, here's a scenario: dead naval officer, the last to see him alive was the wife. They were in debt, and he was gone the majority of the year, but no life insurance policy."

I thought over it for a little while as thoughts and ideas started coming to me. "Divorce?"

He paused. "Sister-in-law said they were fighting a lot, and that it was brought up a few times."

"All right," I thought it over. "How close was the sister-in-law to him, and did she push the divorce? What did she do?"

"As a matter of fact, she said that she suggested it because she wanted the best for her sister, despite being good friends with him. She was a consultant for a nation-wide accounting firm."

I smiled as it clicked. "Sister-in-law was having an affair, probably because she happened to travel a lot as well. She pushed the divorce to get with the officer. How did the wife take it? Upset; in shock?"

"She was fairly upset actually. She found him in the living room and claimed to have started crying then and didn't stop until we arrived."

"Okay, so are we going to suggest that they were probably still close?"

He nodded.

I had to think about it for a little bit, but from what he had told me, I was pretty sure I had a decent theory. "So with the sister-in-law having an affair with him, and him wanting to stay with his wife, he had to tell her. When he did, she snapped and killed him. She loved him; he loved his wife. Crime of passion."

"Good. That's exactly what happened. She didn't confess until we had a decent paper trail following the two of them," he praised. "Of course, the wife was having an affair too. Didn't want to be alone. That's what caused the arguments."

I felt my cheeks get a little warm at the praise. I had never had anyone tell me that I did a good job with that little quirk of mine. Normally, I would get scolded for being nosey or just plain creepy. Gibbs, however, seemed to find this perfectly normal, though quite intriguing. For the rest of the evening, we went over different cases and discussed who did what. He gave me the evidence that convicted them, and I told him why, and possibly easier ways of getting them to confess in interrogation, because apparently, he did that quite often with certain techniques, or so he told me. Eventually we moved into the living room and Gibbs started a fire in the fire place. We continued well past dark, without ever really noticing the change. At some point (I wasn't really sure how long we had talked), Gibbs finally noticed the time on the clock in the kitchen: 11:13. He quickly told me that I needed to get to bed, and after giving a little bit of grief about the fact that I'm not 5, I headed upstairs and got ready for bed. It wasn't long after that I fell asleep.

_I could feel the coldness of the flat white wall seeping through the thin fabric of my t-shirt as I lay in a fetal position against the wall. He had come home drunk again, and I knew that he would still feel enough pity for me if I curled up in the corner. I had learned after many punches thrown towards me. Tonight, however, was different. It didn't seem to make a difference where I was, or what position I was in; he was drunk enough that he couldn't distinguish a difference. As he came towards me, fear gripped every fiber in my being until I couldn't even scream for help from his wife. I hated when I got this way, but here I was, paralyzed by fear. I could smell the bourbon getting closer and the thud of his footsteps underneath me; instinctively, I pulled my knees closer to my chest. It didn't matter. He grabbed my shoulders and jerked me up. It wasn't until now that I realized I was shaking uncontrollably with fear; I could feel the tremors all the way in my toes, and I could see my hair shaking in front of my eyes. Before I could stop it, I felt a teardrop or two trickle down my face. _

"_Why ya cryin' little girl?" he slurred. "Ha' I done sumtin' to upset ya?"_

_I shook my head, as more tears fell. Sure, he was drunk, and that always had something to do with the way he acted. Nevertheless, I was terrified, and expected the worst. The smell of bourbon was stronger than normal, so that probably explained the majority of actions. _

_He slapped me… hard. I could feel the blood rushing to the impact zone and the stinging sensation began. "I as'ed ya a question."_

_I shook my head again just to receive another blow. Then he unleashed a fury of repetitive hits, causing me to fall against the hardwood floor. As he kicked me in the stomach, I could feel the consequences of his blows to my head beginning to all ready occur: my eyelid was swelling, my lip bleeding, and my head was spinning. As the beating stopped, I knew that he would have one final thing to say to me. I was correct. Facing me from the floor, I was bathed in the aroma of the hard liquor. My stomach, as a reaction to the liquor, formed a knot and made me nauseated. I tried wriggling away, but his large, rough hands entangled themselves in my hair._

_Slamming my head against the wall, he started yelling at me, spewing me in a form of diluted bourbon. "No one loves you, girl! You know that, right?" he spewed. "I mean, your parents don't even love you! Why would I love you, or anyone else for that matter?" He threw his barreled fist into my jaw to prove his point._

_I was confused. He had always spoiled me and acted like I was his daughter, excepting, of course, for the times when he was drunk. To me those didn't count. This though; this crossed the line. Somehow I was able to gather enough courage to belt out a couple loud screams, despite the tears that were now pouring down my cheeks. I couldn't help myself. Everything that I had ever been told my entire life was a lie. I knew that this was only one man who happened be drunk at the time, but he just kept reiterating it as he punched me, telling me to hush and that was why no one could ever love me. _

"_Kris," I heard a voice say, and then it was repeated. The voice was coming out of nowhere, and incredibly mysterious, since I couldn't see the person saying it. I tried to drown it out by screaming more, but that was more from the pain that was now welling up from each site of impact. As he left me, through the tears, I managed to let out one more scream before being violently shaken by an imaginary force._

Consciousness suddenly overtook me, but though I was conscious, I had no bearings on where I was. The blurriness of having just woken up, mixed with the tears made it nearly impossible to figure out exactly what was going on. The only thing I could really tell was that there was someone else in my room, and they were holding onto my shoulders. I immediately put up my defenses again. What if I wasn't safe? What if I was back there, and the power had just gone out? I could still feel the tears streaming down my face, but that was more the residual effect of the nightmare than my current predicament. Fear began to tie its knot in my stomach again, and I started to take a deep breath to let out a loud, long scream. The voice of the person clutching my arms spoke in a calm, gentle voice that didn't match my assailant. It silenced the not-quite screamed scream. Realizing that I was safe, though still not entirely sure where I was, I let the tears begin flowing again. I couldn't help myself no matter how much I tried. The salty taste of the warm liquid entered my mouth, and mucus began to clog my nose. Knowing that I really needed someone to hang onto as this had been one of the worst and I hadn't had a nightmare in a while, I threw my arms around his neck.

At first, he seemed surprised and did nothing with his hands. They just continued to prop himself up against my mattress stiffly. Then, I felt the muscles of his shoulders move and the flat of his palms against my back. For a while, he let his hands smooth up and down my back. The warmth of his hands seemed to spread throughout my body as he held me. For once I felt comforted after my nightmares, so I just let out the tears that I hadn't really been holding back. I felt my back wretch as a flood of tears escaped from my eyes and poured down my face. I let one of my hands wipe them away, but it was to no avail because they just kept coming so fast. One of his hands found its way to my head and held on tightly at the base of my skull. I felt his lips press against my temple before he whispered, "It's okay. Shh, it's okay. You're all right now. It's over. It was just a dream. I got you. I got you." He stroked my hair until I was finally able to calm myself a little bit. Noticing my calm, he used the hand that was stroking my hair to push my head to rest against the nook between his neck and shoulder. I had to admit that I was probably more exhausted just from the amount emotions that I just poured out, so I was glad to lay my head there and let my death grip on him relax a little bit. For at least another two minutes we stayed like that until the tears finally stopped rolling down my cheeks. It wasn't until then that he released me and stopped the comforting words.

Slowly, I backed away from him and sat in my bed and finally fully realized what was going on. The bluish-purple aura of my light seemed to cause a haze that began to give me a headache, but did push me back in the direction of my reality. That reality being that I was sitting in my bed, with my new legal guardian, and did not have my arm warmers on. The fact that I was in my room with Gibbs, still with tears stains on his shoulder, gave me a start and I backed up to the edge of my bed. It wasn't every day that you find yourself in the same bed with a man that you hardly know. For me, this was especially bad since no one had ever seen the scars because I didn't want to have to be in therapy. This was a really vulnerable moment for me and it honestly scared me.

Seeing the fear in my eyes, Gibbs took the hint, stood up and headed to my door. "I'll be downstairs making some coffee if you want."

Initially wanting to just turn him down all together and go back to sleep, I began to answer, but the thought of being tossed back into the clutches of my unconscious swayed my opinions. Sighing, I pulled my legs up into a cross-legged position. "Water actually does the trick for me most times," I corrected with a smile.

He returned the gesture. "All right. I'll get a glass of water for you, but I'm still making coffee." Nodding, he left the doorway, and his footsteps echoed down the hallway as he descended down the steps.

I sat on my bed, listening to his footsteps fade away into the kitchen. When I was absolutely sure he had made it to the kitchen, I took a few deep breaths to completely calm myself and grabbed my arm warmers off the bedside table. Before sliding them on, I glanced at the horizontal scars that lined my arm. Each one had their own story, but they all sort of came back to the same root. I clenched my eyes shut and had to regain my cool once again. For the first time since I had started this destructive habit, a sense of shame formed in the pit of my stomach. It was a strange feeling that I didn't particularly like, so the arm warmers quickly covered both my forearms and the scars disappeared from the forefront of my thoughts. I took a deep breath as I launched myself from my bed. As I came to the stairs, the possibilities of how the coming conversation could go began to formulate; all of them involving the question about what the nightmares were. Even though he had just saved me from my unconscious, I wasn't sure I trusted him enough to tell him about the events that inspired the nightmares or how they affected the rest of my life. I shuddered as I came to the bottom of the stairs as the images and emotions came back for a split second flash.

Entering the kitchen, I saw Gibbs from the back pouring coffee. There was a tall glass of water beginning to frost over from the condensation of the cold water sitting next to his mug. I leaned against the doorpost, afraid to go in and face the questions. I waited against the doorpost silently for as long as I could, holding my breath. Eventually, he turned around and saw me standing there. He had this look on his face that I couldn't place, but I could tell that it had something to do with searching for answers. However there was a slight hint of pain lining his features. I couldn't explain it, so I gave up trying. Feeling incredibly scrutinized under his gaze, I tried to curl into myself before crossing the room.

He silently handed me the glass of water and leaned against the counter with the coffee mug pressed to his lips. The look that now was plastered on his face was one that was definitely reading every move I made. His blue eyes looked me over.

As he sipped his coffee, which I hoped was decaf, I finally got the chance to look over the man who had saved me from my nightmares. His hair was disheveled, completely relating the fact that he had just gotten out of bed; it was sticking up in places that I didn't think possible from the normal state of his silver hair. He was wearing a ratty old t-shirt from some non-descript police department somewhere in Maryland and an extremely faded pair of jeans. It was almost as if he pulled on the jeans as he got out of bed and dashed to my room, but as I looked at the clock on the wall, that became a sincere possibility. He was barefoot, which further supported my hypothesis. Suddenly, I felt bad that I had woken someone besides myself because of my nightmare. I hadn't done that since the first house I had stayed at after moving out of _his_ house. I didn't know how to explain myself without telling him everything, and right then, I wasn't willing to tell him anything. I took a long swallow of the cool water and let it slip down my throat. When his blue eyes met my hazel ones searching for more answers, I quickly looked down and folded my arms against my chest.

Knowing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with me by standing in the kitchen, he pushed himself off the counter and walked towards living room. As he passed me, he placed his hand on the small of my back, causing me to flinch, and guided to me to the couch. "C'mon." Once we sat down, he took the liberty of draining his coffee mug and setting it on the small table across from us. That was when he turned to me. His eyes watched me as finished off my glass of water, almost instantly feeling calm enough to go back to sleep. "Wanna tell me what just happened?" he asked, finally breaking the long silence.

I nervously ran my hand through my red and black hair and looked the other direction. I wasn't prepared to tell him what had really just happened, which I could tell was what he wanted. Going with my typical lie, I told him, "Just a nightmare."

"That's all?"

I clenched my jaw shut. "That's all," I assured.

He sighed. Tilting his head to the side, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You really think you can lie to me?"

My hand froze its massage on my shoulder and I stared into his eyes. I let my eyes hit the ceiling as I bit the inside of my lower lip. My eyes didn't like the ceiling and stared down at my left forearm, where my right fingers had wandered off to trace the scars. The words that I had been told many years ago fought an inward battle with the amount of trust that had been semi-established with the man sitting across from me. "It's a reoccurring nightmare that I've had for about five years. Nothing really. It was just worse than normal."

"What's it about?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

I forced a laugh. "It's… Well, it's stupid. It's… It's nothing, really." I looked at the clock in the kitchen, trying to give myself a decent excuse to retreat back to my room.

"If you've had it for five years, it can't be nothing," he pried.

I clenched my jaw again. This was getting annoying. Why couldn't he just buy my story and let me go back to bed, like all the other parents? "It's really nothing, I promise. I should go to bed." I got up and walked towards the stairs. For a second, I thought I was free, that he had just dropped the subject and would let it stay that way. Then he cleared his throat. Slowly I turned around to face him.

He had shifted positions on the couch and was sitting with one leg folded under the other. The smirk had left, only to be replaced by that look of searching mixed with pain. His face looked older for some reason in the lamp light. It was impossible to tell what was going through his head at the time, but it was obvious that he knew I wasn't telling him everything. "Ya can't lie to me forever, Kris."

"Watch me!" I dared. "And for the record: I'm not actually lying." _I'm just not telling you the truth,_ I silently added. I dashed up the stairs, hoping that I could forever forget this.

**Okay! This sounded a lot better in my head, so forgive the choppiness at the end. I proud of everything up until the final conversation, which as I said, sounded a lot better in my head. Be gentle, and again, deepest apologies for the long wait for this to be posted. Help me to know where else to go with this. I have some key points, but I need some fillers. Shoot some ideas. Clicky the little review button. =)**


	4. Hiatus Message

**Hi everyone. I know that you all want to read more of this story, and I promise that at some point I will continue writing them. However, at this point in time, I'm writing my own work of fiction. Wanna know something cool about that? It's online too. You can find the link to the book on my profile. I would love it if you all took the time to read and review. You guys are really my motivation. Hope that you all enjoy it =) Love you all**


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